The Hurt Locker

My fellow Americans, our long national nightmare is over. After gauging the level of dissatisfaction amongst the passengers in my vehicle, I have unilaterally adopted a strategy to completely eradicate the lingering musk. While it is true we are not completely out of the woods in the waning days of the inland trout season, significant measures have been taken to put us on the road to recovery. In the interest of full disclosure it is a statement of fact that my days on the water were limited until recently. I’ve been locked in a mental box. The pain and discomfort associated with my aforementioned malady, made it so I couldn’t even wear my sling pack for a period of time, not to mention fly casting. More to the point, nothing says that your “shit stank” like the ubiquitous Pine Tree air freshener. Mrs. Adrift is so embarrassed by the ultimate beacon of feculence that adorns my ride that she takes it down every time she drives my car. But that’s half the fun of it anyway. The irony of my predicament is that I actually run a pretty tight ship when it comes to automotive cleanliness. A wicked cocktail of leaky waders and a muddy dog as co-pilot is the likely culprit, but at this point tests prove inconclusive. The good news is that angling battle stations have been mostly operational for a few weeks, and I’ve endeavored to get while the gettin’s good.

I’m not going to spin any lengthy yarn with this one, just throw down a smattering of frames that have been queued up for some time. There’s been a glacially slow movement towards offering up a regular stream of bite size nuggets via my currently minuscule Instagram account, but that’s to be expected. I’m often guilty of dancing with myself. Truth be told, I’m more Ted Kaczynski than Ted Turner in my isolationist social media tendencies. A small cabin in Montana sounds pretty damn good now doesn’t it?

After being sidelined it feels pretty good to be back on the horse as we transition into autumn. As best I can tell the fish, like the leaves, are quite a bit behind schedule. I’ll attempt to fill the mental tank before ultimately being frozen out and switching to off-season activities. As much as I’d like to blame man’s best friend (Abe) for my aromatic abnormality, my nasty little habit of wearing my leaky waders while driving between spots has cost me dearly. I may try to masquerade things with the sweet smell of Margarita, but I honestly don’t know if my vehicle with ever be the same. The ripple effect of injury and effluent can put you into a tailspin, but I’m happy to report that there is light at the end of the hurt locker.